


A Robustly-Engineered Machine

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Male Solo, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Narcissism, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, I always give my fics these goofy titles that are either minimalist or pretentious. Sometimes I want to just give them trashy titles that advertise exactly what they are, for example: “Hannibal Has A Truly Epic Wank.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Robustly-Engineered Machine

Hannibal cooks and eats dinner alone. He listens to the Goldberg Variations whenever he does this, as it complements the experience. When the music ends, he does not bother to put on something else. He puts up the leftovers and washes the dishes in a pleasant, peaceful silence. 

He showers; he’d bathed that morning, but it’s been a long day, and hot soapy water on his skin helps to leave that behind. He spends more time in the shower than is necessary, sorting and filing some final thoughts on the day’s events. But that is fine, because with that finished, he emerges from the bathroom ready to concentrate on the present. 

He puts on clean pajamas and wraps himself in his soft, heavy robe. He passes through his bedroom, feeling its lure: the reflection of the lamplight in the mirror, the invitingly cozy bed. But first he must make his way back downstairs, to give the house one more going-over. He’s not expecting anyone, but that is precisely why he’s having a look around. Not that it’s common for him to host unexpectedly, but it’s not unheard of for clients, or others he is consulting for, to show up at his doorstep in a panic, facing some sort of crisis that simply must be dealt with by the only person they know they can trust – Doctor Lecter. 

So he begins at the front door, then backtracks through the drawing room, dining room, and so on, turning out the lights in each as he finds them empty. He double-checks that the burglar alarm is armed. Gives the kitchen a once-over for anything left out or appliances still on. Upstairs, he sweeps through his study, then the guest bedrooms and bathrooms, finding everything as it should be. 

It is only after he has thoroughly checked the entire house that he feels comfortable and secure enough to proceed with the ritual. Returning to his bedroom, he closes the door behind him, though there’s really no need to. His phone and tablet are here; he shuts them off entirely. There is one lamp on, in a sconce on the wall; he adjusts it to its lowest setting. The curtain sheers have given him sufficient privacy, but now he pulls the drapes closed over them, and feels a more satisfying solitude. 

He pads over to the side of the bed he sleeps on, reaches down to lift the sheet and comforter and fold them neatly over to the other half of the bed. Then he opens the drawer of the bedside table, and removes the three items concealed there: a white towel, a bottle of water-based lubricant, and his favorite toy. It’s as sleek and artfully designed as anything he owns, smooth and black in an elegant C-shape that is slender but still obviously phallic, more bulbous at one end but with a tapered tip. He could have acquired this toy in a variety of silicone shapes, but he insisted on having one custom-made in solid glass; in the low light it has the appearance of onyx. 

Holding the toy in his hand, he’s starting to get hard, just from the anticipation. He does not bother to will the erection away, as he has no one to hide it from. Instead, he allows himself to feel the pleasant pulses as his cock thickens against the silk of his pajama bottoms. 

The toy, lube, and towel he sets aside, on top of the blankets where they’re folded over. He doesn’t need them yet, he only wants them easily accessible when the time comes. 

He turns around, backs of his knees against the mattress now, to regard himself in the wide, full-length mirror that is mounted in a mahogany frame on the wall, next to the walk-in closet. He takes two steps forward, to put himself perfectly in the frame of the mirror, as close as he can get before his toes or the top of his head would no longer be visible in the reflection. 

He’s the picture of casual elegance; he knows this. His bare feet (as opposed to a pair of color-coordinated slippers) prevent the whole package from coming off too stuffy, keep it a bit enticing and sexy. His heavy dressing gown, like his tailored suits, gives him a masculine silhouette, but one that is distinguished and decorous. All by himself, he can let his guard down, can smile at the thought that there is so much more going on under his clothing than just about anyone will ever know. 

He unties the robe and slips it off his shoulders, letting its weight carry it the rest of the way to the floor. Then, he undoes the buttons of his pajama top, one by one, gradually revealing himself, to himself, in the mirror. The shirt drops as well, in a soft puddle around his ankles. 

Normally he would fold each discarded article of clothing before setting it aside, but he doesn’t want to stop looking at himself long enough to step away from the mirror. He’s here to appraise himself, to admire himself, and it would not do to waste a moment that could be better devoted to doing that. Even if he were capable of feeling shame at all, he wouldn’t feel ashamed of how he feels about his own physical form, because it is a fact: he is in incredible condition, and not just “for a man his age.” 

The genetic lottery dealt him enviable body hair distribution: he has a thick, masculine patch across his chest, a tempting trail down his belly, and a reasonable dusting down his forearms and shins. He has to do a little work every few weeks to keep his pubic hair in check, but his shoulders, back, and behind are naturally bare and smooth, even now that middle age is undeniably upon him. 

His face and hands, which he cannot help but allow to be exposed to the elements, are weathered, giving something of a clue as to his age, but the rest of him is fair skin and keen muscle, firm and supple. With this sturdy yet agile body, he can overpower a human several inches taller than himself, and thirty pounds heavier. The aspect of his own physical prowess which concerns him more immediately, however, is the fact that he can achieve and maintain a rock-hard erection as easily as he did when he was a man of twenty. 

He is fully hard in his pajamas now, his cock forming a tent in them that he finds amusingly erotic. Much as he enjoys the sight of his cock bare and uncovered, nothing is left to the imagination that way. By pulling the fabric of his pajamas tight against himself, he can get a good look at the shape of it, even discern the ridge of the crown. His pre-ejaculate seeps into the silk where it rubs the tip, but he’s not concerned. The fabric is dark, and won’t stain. 

He turns, to view it in profile. He tugs on a handful of silk to get it to press fairly flat against his body again, and then, when he lets go, it springs back up again. When he’s entertained himself for long enough at this, he tugs his pajama bottoms down, letting the waistband catch on his cock, making it spring up again when finally freed. 

Hannibal loves his cock. He couldn’t ask for a better one, really. It’s not particularly long, but that doesn’t bother him, because it’s thick, a really good handful. In it’s relaxed state, it’s a charming shade of pink, and darkens as it grows erect, verging on purple when he’s pumping it hard. Each subtle shade is appealing to him in the state he is in when he views it. It has one subtle vein that branches out on the underside, to give it some texture. When hard, it has a slight upward sweep, making it appear even more eager. The crown is distinct but not overly flared; his cock retains a clean, elegant line, from base to tip, whether the thick, smooth foreskin covers the head or is drawn back. 

He pivots, rotating to look at himself from behind for a moment – reminding himself that his body is hard everywhere except the places where it’s appealing to be a little soft. His buttocks are tight and round, but springy. He runs an admiring hand over the alluring swell of one, presses into the flesh with his fingertips, down near the crease where cheek meets thigh. 

This is the body that no one else gets to see, not quantitatively more masculine, but qualitatively different, with glowing goosebumped skin, with curves of muscle, with flesh fervent and throbbing. 

He drags his fingers over his chest and belly, feeling a few of these toned contours, enjoying both the touching and the being touched, which he can separate in his mind, jump back and forth between as the desire takes him. It’s not strenuous movement, but he can watch his muscles sliding under his skin, like fine parts in a robustly-engineered machine. He loves the swell of his bicep when he grips his jutting cock, giving it a few slow, generous strokes, coaxing a thin thread of pre-ejaculate from the tip. He tastes it sometimes, but for now he would rather just watch it trickle out. 

He likes the way he looks, feet planted at shoulder width, pumping his beautiful cock. But even more so he likes to watch himself relaxed and reclining in his luxurious bed, his stiff cock standing straight up while he strokes it. So he backs up, not taking his eyes from himself, sits on the bed, and then swings his legs up onto the mattress, slowly and one at a time, so he can catch a glimpse of inner thigh. 

Rather than go right back to stroking himself, he decides to tease his cock for a little while, and digs his fingers into his pubic hair, rubbing around the base, feeling the ache begin to creep down his shaft. It takes several minutes of neglect before it becomes more painful than pleasant to have an erection, and Hannibal waits until that line is crossed before he continues to indulge himself. 

He soothes the ache out of his cock with one hand, and explores his body elsewhere with the other. It feels good to pinch the hard muscles of his thighs, or to rub his belly, press his finger into his navel. His hand slides up to stroke his neck, and then back down, lingering as he fans his fingers over his chest. He idly pinches one nipple between index and middle finger, but that pleasure is incidental. What he wants to feel here is his heartbeat. 

This is what truly gets him excited: what is happening now, when he is concentrating on feeling all the _life_ in himself: the expansion of his lungs and the rise of his belly as the breath moves in and out of him; the blood pumping through his limbs; the perspiration on his skin, his body’s effort to regulate its rapidly rising temperature. Many minutes go by like this, listening to his heart hammering away while playing with his foreskin over just the tip of his cock. It makes his toes curl, makes him tingle all over, everywhere he can’t reach. 

When he can feel an orgasm approaching, he begins squeezing his pubococcygeals, the muscles of his pelvic floor. He breathes deeply through his mouth while he does this. With years of practice, he has taught himself to separate orgasm and ejaculation. The moment he feels the telltale twitches that indicate that he is about to come, he slams hard on the brakes, clenches his pelvic floor muscles as hard as he can, and he experiences what will be merely the first of a series of stunning orgasms. His head lolls from side to side, and a few tiny, incoherent noises escape his throat as waves of euphoria wash over him. 

Listening to his heartbeat slow to a languid pace afterward keeps him happy while he takes a short break. And then, when he is ready, he begins again, using his thumb to play with the slit of his cock, until that pleasure energizes him sufficiently and he is ready to expend more effort. 

It doesn’t take much time for the pleasure to build back up. Soon he’s pulling steadily at himself again, and now with his free hand he reaches down below his cock to tenderly cup his sack, rolling his thumb against it, gently tugging once in a while. When he feels a new orgasm looming, he clenches hard again, grunting loudly with the effort of restraining his body while still experiencing quivering ecstasy. He arches his back, so only his shoulders and heels remain on the mattress, stroking himself as slowly as he can manage, breathing deep and hard to draw it out. Only a thin droplet emerges from his cock as he squeezes it. When he collapses back onto the mattress, he is a little damp, a little fatigued, but he is not nearly done. Now it is finally, finally time to use his toy. 

He reaches for the towel first, unfolding it and tucking it underneath himself, to keep the sheets tidy. He tucks the toy against his side; it will take a little time to warm the glass against his skin. In the meantime, he lies flat on his back again, bends his knees and plants his feet on the mattress. He lets his thighs fall open, then slides his hands down over his hips until he’s gripping his own ass. He spreads his cheeks open, and the sensation of his anus being exposed makes his cock jump a little, even though, being alone in the room, the orifice is essentially no more vulnerable than it ever is. He lets it contract in response to the cool air while he squeezes some lube onto his fingers, then reaches again, between his thighs this time, and slides down until he finds his hole. He doesn’t typically spend much time fingering himself; it’s awkward, and does not do an adequate job of making him feel full and overcome. He could reach if he made the effort; by pushing all the way up he could just barely stroke his sweet spot with the tip of his middle finger. But he doesn’t want to bother with that. The toy does a better job. So he gets his fingers far enough inside to get the lube in and work the muscle loose, and by then he can feel that the glass is sufficiently suffused with his body heat. 

He presses the narrow tip of the toy against his hole, and his body knows what it needs to do. The muscle relaxes and lets him push, stretches to accommodate the widest part of the object, then closes around it as it curves and narrows. The toy positions itself, shaped as it is to fit his inner contours. His anus does the work of drawing it inside, needing no guidance to swiftly and easily find his prostate. At that point, it is essentially a hands-free device; while one half of the curved glass is inside him, the other half curls around sharply enough to keep it safe from slipping all the way in, and as a bonus, pushes against his perineum, so that he is also stimulated from the outside. 

Both his hands are now available to touch himself in other ways, though he hardly needs it at this point. Even the slightest movement – _breathing_ – causes the toy to shift in unexpected ways, which makes him squirm even more, perpetuating the cycle of almost unbearable pleasure. The toy seems innocuous in size – it easily fits in his hand. But in his body, it feels enormous, intruding into every space inside that he has to spare for it. The stimulation causes his anus to contract, and every squeeze of that muscle only serves to pull the object deeper inside him, tormenting his prostate even further. 

He had been able to remain mostly silent when it was only his cock being stimulated, but when he’s got unyielding glass massaging his insides, he cannot contain a deep, continuous groan – nor does he bother trying to. His own noises cause his excitation to spiral upwards. Even the sound of his own hard breathing is sexy to him, but particularly hearing his own shouting causes aching bolts to fire off down his gut into his balls. He cries out, “Yes. Yes! _Ah!_ ” to no one but himself. 

His body is full and ready and primed, thrumming with dopamine and norepinephrine. He’s just an animal now, sweating and panting with exertion, chasing and reveling in pleasure unashamedly. And then his entire body stills, save for the involuntary tremors in his prick and his hole. He squeezes his eyes shut, closing out that sensory input so he can focus even more on the hot, sharp joy of his final orgasm breaking. The voluptuous rush of it makes him shudder. He can feel jet after powerful jet of spunk shooting out of his cock. When he does finally look down, it is to see the last strand oozing out of the slit and into his pubic hair. He breathes in the musky scent of ejaculate, contented. 

With a few tugs, the toy slips out, leaving him feeling wide open, wet and sensitive. It drops onto the towel, and he leaves it there, even though the sodden, bulbous end of it is pressed against his thigh and growing cold now. 

He is depleted, but in a splendid way, like he’s been wrung out by loving hands. The serotonin makes him want to sink into the mattress and fall deeply asleep, but he knows he’s got to get back into the shower, to rid himself of all the lube and sweat. He hauls himself out of bed and into a standing position; when his knees threaten to give, he lets himself wobble, allows himself that moment of visible vulnerability, the way another person might allow themselves an extra piece of chocolate, and with the same sly private smile to acknowledge the indulgence. 

Before making his way to the bathroom, he pauses to regard himself one last time in his mirror. He looks gorgeous now: his skin is radiant and flushed, his limbs are loose and relaxed, and his hair is charmingly mussed, sweat-dampened strands falling into his eyes. He looks like he’s just had an excellent fuck. And he has.


End file.
